


Words Left Unsaid

by spookyawards_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Gen, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-04
Updated: 2003-10-04
Packaged: 2019-04-27 06:17:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14419407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyawards_archivist/pseuds/spookyawards_archivist
Summary: After a disturbing case, Mulder and Scully struggle with recovery and with the boundaries they've built between themselves.





	Words Left Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Spooky Awards](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Spooky_Awards), and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [SpookyAwards' collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/spookyawards/profile).

 

Words Left Unsaid

## Words Left Unsaid

### by Lakticia

Title: Words Left Unsaid  
Author: Lakticia  


Disclaimer: These characters ain't mine Archive: Yes to Ephemeral and Gossamer, anywhere else please ask first  
Date finished: 9 August 2003  
Category: Story, Angst  
Keywords: M/S UST  
Rated: PG for language  
Spoilers: None  
Summary: "Day or night. I can be here in 20 minutes." 

Effusive thanks to: XScribe, Spooky2u2 and Lee for the incredibly helpful beta :) 

Feedback: I'm new - all comments would be very gratefully received and soon answered. :) 

  * Words Left Unsaid -=* by Lakticia 



Say something. 

Give her space. 

Shit. 

This had been Mulder's thought loop for the entire silent car journey home from Dulles airport. 

Scully sat beside him in the passenger seat and every time he glanced at her he felt shaken from his centre of gravity. To the untrained eye she was perfectly composed. But he saw the slight slump in her posture, the faint dullness in her eyes; she looked like the compass had been sucked out of her world, and not for the first time. 

Which, of course, was exactly what had happened. 

He pulled up in front of her apartment building. She opened the door, and he knew she would leave without a word. No. He had to say something. Or they'd be left with nothing but that too-real darkness that hung thick and low around them. 

"Scully." 

She turned, her eyes finding his in a tired inquiry. 

"Day or night. I can be here in 20 minutes." His voice was gruff with sincerity. 

He saw some expression, some crack of understanding in her eyes and felt grateful he'd spoken. She opened her mouth in a tiny echo of "Thanks". Not knowing what else to do, he watched as she exited the car and disappeared into her building. 

* 

Scully's grip on professional distance was starting to slip. 

Abandoned warehouse. Dark and miles from anywhere. Edgar Johnson's voice echoed off corrugated iron as he circled her chair, needled her with intimate questions. 

Edgar Johnson. A serial killer with a gun, possible psychic powers, and a definite fondness for her. 

She sat bound tightly to a chair and gagged with cotton rags. Mulder and a local policeman were bound and gagged beside her. 

She met Johnson's gaze constantly, defiantly. She kept his attention, knowing that every second he watched her was a second in which Mulder and the policeman could try to get their binds untied. But she was starting to weaken. 

Johnson stood over her and smiled. 

"You know what, Dana Scully? I know you. I know what you want." 

He paused for dramatic effect. 

"You want to get out of here alive. But, more than that... you want your partner and this fine police officer to get out of here alive." 

Johnson glanced and waved his gun at his other hostages. They stared back, the young policeman wide-eyed with fear, Mulder defiantly neutral. 

Johnson clicked his intense gaze back to Scully. "Yeah, you're a good person, Dana Scully. Very noble. Unfortunately, you can't save everyone." 

**BANG!**

Barely moving his gaze from her, Johnson raised his gun and shot the policeman in the stomach. 

Oh Jesus. No. Scully stared in horror at the young man moaning in pain and shock, blood seeping thickly from his wound. She and Mulder exchanged a look. Stay calm. Stay strong. 

Johnson looked at his victim expressionlessly. As if watching a movie. He turned to her with a sick smile. "Well, Dana Scully. So much for keeping him safe. I guess you failed." He cocked his head to the side and considered. "I'd like to know how you feel about that." 

He pulled her gag off. She coughed for a few moments, then looked up at him. 

"Edgar, listen to me. He could still survive. If he gets medical treatment now-" 

"And why would I let that happen?" 

"Edgar, he hasn't done anything to you. There's no reason why he deserves this-" 

"Deserves this? _Deserves_ this?!" Johnson's voice took on a harder edge. "Why should _you_ decide who deserves what? What gives _you_ the right?" 

"What gives _you_ the right?" she countered. Her voice wavered. No. Stay calm. Stay calm. 

"Oh, shut up." Johnson's face contorted with irritation. "Just shut up, you fucking righteous bitch! _Fuck_!" 

Angrily he shoved his gun up to her forehead and instantly noises came from beside her. Mulder was banging his fists against his chair, mumbling loud noises from behind his gag, tapping his toes on the floor, trying to get Johnson's attention. Scully allowed herself a second of relief. 

Mulder's efforts worked. Johnson lowered his gun and turned to stare at him, examining him silently. Finally he smiled. 

"Y'know, Dana Scully..." He swivelled her chair around so she couldn't see Mulder. "Your partner's a pretty goodlooking guy." 

The waver in Scully's voice tripled in strength. "Edgar, the police are looking for us right now." 

He ignored her completely. Spoke again in that taunting, light voice. "He really wouldn't look so good with a gunshot wound in his forehead." 

Oh God. No. No. No. "Edgar-" 

He raised his gun. "Oh well." 

**BANG!**

* 

Mulder arrived home to an empty Friday night. She didn't call. 

Nor Saturday, day or night. 

Sunday came and passed slowly and he started to worry. He tried telling himself to stop it. Stop it, Scully is strong. She's not strong enough, no-one could be, she needs... She _is_ strong enough and she'll resent it if I... and then he remembered the dullness in her eyes and he felt sick and weak from the clash of instincts. 

Sunday night, Monday morning, 1:30am, he answered the phone before the first ring was done. 

"Scully?" 

A pause. "Hey." 

"You alright?" He should have asked something more neutral. Suddenly his heart was in his throat. 

"Yeah." Her voice was tired, etched with hesitation and poorly concealed need. "Uh, you know what you said. About being here in 20 minutes?" 

"I'm on my way." 

* 

**BANG!**

An awful, choked, half-wailing sob escaped Scully's mouth. 

Silence. 

Then Johnson started chuckling. "Relax, Dana Scully." He swivelled her around again. She could barely process the sight that met her eyes. Mulder staring back at her in shock. Not bleeding. What? Not bleeding. She saw a new gunshot wound in the policeman's chest. 

She and Mulder locked eyes. 

Mulder. Oh God. Mulder. 

Johnson watched her closely. His lip curled in sadistic satisfaction. "Oh, baby, you know what I like." 

He leaned down and delicately, slowly, stuck out the tip of his tongue and licked a single tear from her cheek. 

Seconds later the police burst into the building, shot Johnson without a moment's hesitation and untied the Agents. It was over. 

They stumbled together and hugged; then drew apart and discussed logistics, leaning in close to each other. 

Then, as always, they retreated to recover in privacy. The comfort of solitude, the comfort of habit, the presence of each other's absence. 

* 

Scully opened the door in her dressing gown and Mulder was relieved to find that she looked exhausted. Not shattered, not lifeless. Just exhausted. 

"Come in." 

He followed her into the kitchen and watched as she took two mugs from a cupboard. 

"What would you like to drink?" 

That was Scully. Using formalities, politenesses to get comfortable in a tense situation. He smiled to himself and played along. 

"Whatever you're having." 

"Camomile tea?" She glanced at him with a mildly teasing raised eyebrow, knowing he wasn't a big fan of herbal teas. 

He furrowed his brow a little and looked at her questioningly. 

"I haven't given it to you before," she answered. 

He nodded and shrugged. "OK then." 

He watched her pour the drinks, studied her with a thousand questions inside him. He didn't know where to begin. 

"I've been worried." Such a gross understatement. His inner voice found it hilarious. 

Scully's forehead creased, lips quirked in recognition and thanks. She opened her mouth to speak, then faltered. She turned to him and raised her eyes to meet his. 

On impulse he stepped forward, just to put his hand on her arm; but somehow they seemed to fall together and hold each other. 

He shut his eyes and breathed in the silence until he could feel every solid inch of her body. She was here. She was OK. They would be alright. 

"Mulder..." Her voice was muffled against his chest. She raised her head to look at him. He watched the struggle on her face, waited to see how much of herself she would reveal. 

"I'm sick of almost losing you so often and never really having you." 

For a crazy split second he stared at her. 

No. No. Not her voice. His own thoughts. Jesus. He was going insane. 

"I'm sorry for disturbing you in the middle of the night." 

"It's OK," he said with a faint smile, as if it would have been anything other than OK. His voice was low, wishing she would say it. Say something. Anything real. 

She drew out of his arms and picked up their mugs. "Come on." 

They went through to the lounge and sat on her sofa. She watched with faint amusement as he cautiously sipped the tea. 

Mulder assessed the taste of the drink and reluctantly swallowed. "Tastes like Earl Grey's dirty dishwater," he deadpanned. 

She smiled, evidently unsurprised but amused by his words. He studied her keenly, trying to see if the smile was genuine, or if that dullness remained beneath. Her eyes flickered to his a little self-consciously. But he knew she would understand, accept his attention on a night like this. 

After a few silent moments she cleared her throat and spoke. "I was thinking, earlier..." A tinge of amusement and embarrassment shaded her serious tone. "I was trying to.. work out the number of times I've thought you were dead." 

He resisted the urge to tease her about the Mulderistic morbidity of such a thought. 

"How many?" 

"Too many." She paused thoughtfully. "Well. _One_ would be too many." A yawn took her by surprise and she covered her mouth briefly. "Do you think it's like this for normal FBI Agents?" 

Normal? His lips quirked and he spoke wryly. "I try to think about _normal_ as little as possible." 

She smiled a little in response. "Probably for the best." 

He wondered how she had felt last week when each had thought the other was dead. He wondered if she'd felt the same as he had. If each breath choked her, if panic chased every heartbeat, if her mind emptied and his name roared in her ears. 

They sat and sipped their drinks in silence for several minutes until he noticed her mouth widen in another yawn. "Sorry, am I keeping you up?" His tone was both teasing and concerned. "Have you slept at all tonight?" 

She shook her head a little and spoke softly. "No. ..Actually, I haven't slept much the whole weekend.. well. Since we left town last week." 

Like that hadn't been obvious from her pale face, shadowed eyes - God, a phone call at 1:30am. But that she would open up and say it out loud... he didn't know how to respond. He would not mention the case. He would not allow them to give it any more time, any more thought. They had enough. Enough demons, enough things between them. 

He opened his mouth but nothing came out. Instead he took her hand silently. 

She watched their fingers intertwine. 

"I'll be fine," she said as if answering a question. "It's just, sometimes, y'know." 

He understood. Sometimes the craziness they went through sucked the compass out of their world, and all they could do was desperately cling to some fragment of identity. Their own, each other's, who they were together. And each time they took a bit more craziness with them, until suddenly they looked up and the night sky was bulging into grotesque shapes, overflowing with nightmares. 

His gaze rested on their hands. 

How could he help her? Was being here enough? Sitting there holding her hand, feeling so sick and mad and tired and loving that it left him mute. Was that enough? Was that what she'd wanted when she called? And if she wanted more, would she ever ask? And if she asked, would it be something he was capable of giving? 

Too much. This was too much. A thought came out of nowhere and in its bland sanity he grabbed onto it. "I saw an infomercial yesterday, it was for... vitamins to help you sleep. Magnesium, I think." 

She eyed him amusedly. "Mulder, are _you_ trying to give _me_ advice on sleeping properly?" 

He smiled a little and spoke with affected innocence. "It just popped into my head." 

"I already take vitamins, anyway." A pause. Her free hand fiddled with a cushion. "-And if you were up late enough to be watching infomercials about sleep remedies, I think it's obvious which one of us needs them." 

Her earlier honesty, the warmth of her hand, the familiarity of her teasing soothed him. He wanted more of this. More sharing, fewer secrets. "Well, this weekend hasn't been too easy for me either." 

She glanced up in mild surprise at his admission. The moment stretched. He wanted to tell her more. He wanted to know what she'd been doing and thinking every minute of the weekend. He wanted to throw himself down at her mercy and let it all out, this insane babbling incoherence of need inside him. 

She looked down at the cushion and spoke faintly, both teasing and serious. "Well. As long as I know you're suffering too." 

He couldn't help but smile at that. He looked askance and spoke with mock action-hero intensity. "Always, Scully. Always." 

She smiled, almost genuinely this time. And just as familiar as the tenderness came its withdrawal. She gently drew her hand from his, an action somehow heavier in its softness, then stood and took their mugs out to the kitchen. 

He stood and moved to the door. "You should go get some sleep," he called, cutting himself some slack, not forcing himself to say it to her face and see whether or not she would show any sign of disappointment. 

She reappeared, nodded softly and opened the door for him. She made tiny Scully gestures, a small smile, a touch on the arm. 

"Thank you, Mulder. For coming over." 

He nodded a little, let himself look at her one last time. In her eyes he saw thanks, affection, layers of things that hurt. 

And he went home beneath a sky of nightmares, with the imprint of her fingers between his, telling himself the same thing as always. One day. One day. 

* * *

  
  


#### If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Lakticia


End file.
